


Sleepless Nights | Quince

by enviouspride



Series: OTP: Fix You [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:19:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviouspride/pseuds/enviouspride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's always a temptation to return to what you know, a ship pulling to port.  Basten can feel it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i - Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mstigergun (seismickitten)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mstigergun+%28seismickitten%29).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set directly after The Stone Tree by mstigergun (http://archiveofourown.org/works/4799615) so you should read that first because a) it is amazing and b) it will give this fic some context!

The first night of their ride back to Skyhold, Leonid sets up the tents.  Or, tries to.  Basten can hear him struggling from where he sits by the fire cooking supper – the loud sighs of frustration, followed by flapping of the tent fabric.

 

“I can do it after supper,” Basten calls, hand drawing a ladle in steady circles through the broth.  Another sigh, exasperated, and Leonid stomps over the the fire.  His hair still clings to his forehead, the damp has permeated through all of his clothes leaving them stuck to his skin at odd angles.  Hopefully the weather will clear up as they get closer to Skyhold, the snow never seems as bad as the constant mist and almost-constant rain.  Basten hopes it will also fix this awful mood that Leonid has – hanging over him, heavy, like his very own storm cloud.

 

“I am _capable_ , Basten,” Leonid says, still carrying one of the tent poles between almost blue fingers.

 

“Of course you are,” Basten fixes him with a pointed look – into brown eyes, to the tent pole and back up to those lovely eyes that shouldn’t look so–

 

Close to tears?  Angry?  Basten can’t tell, the space between them too wide.

 

“I said I’d do it, I’ll do it.”

 

Leonid stands perfectly still, stare fixed on Basten who goes back to their stew that’s steaming away in the pot.  Food is easy, people not so much – especially ones that seem perpetually angry about something they wish not to speak of.

 

Leonid’s gone again in seconds, boots squelching on the wet ground.  There’s a lot of clattering, swearing and even a few pained shouts. But after they’ve eaten and Basten wants to throw himself into his bedroll and rest his muscles, the tents are up and he can do just that.

 

“I was right,” Leonid throws his companion a smirk and a small glance, returning almost immediately back to fletching the arrow he holds carefully between deft fingers.  The fletching itself could be better, Basten can visualise Tamasan being _furious_ at just how messy the arrows are – she’d chide, then sit down with him and show him how in that kind and caring way only she could.

 

Basten aches just to be near him, but Leonid had made it clear.  No more.

 

“You were right,” Basten repeats, peeling back the flap of the tent to reveal a neatly laid out bedroll. “And with bedding!  You outdo yourself, Leonid.”

 

“I couldn’t let you sleep on the ground and get sick now, could I?  Kubrasan would have my head.”

 

They both nod, unsure.  Even their first nights travelling together from Haven weren’t this awkward, before all the fucking.  But now, something lays between them far thicker than the mist of the Storm Coast – far worse than awkward pleasantries and getting to know one another.  Leonid gulps, Basten watches the movement of his adam’s apple and wishes he could feel that skin beneath his hands again.

 

Basten can live without the sex – he enjoys it, of course, but the intimacy of what they had has been wiped clean in one sentence.   _The rest of it needs to be over_.

 

He knows about ending these things – one doesn’t spend almost three years in a mercenary company not knowing that you might be in someone’s bed one night and be told to never come back the next.  It’s simple, Basten understands that, this isn’t.  The tight knot that tightens between his lungs tells him that, as does the numbness in his fingers whenever he thinks about touching the particular curve of Leonid’s cheekbone and the tattoo that rests below his eye.

 

“Well, that is true!  Goodnight then, Leonid,” Basten says, smiling around the words.  It’s all he can do to push down the sickening feeling in his throat.

 

“Goodnight,” Leonid murmurs, eyes still elsewhere – hands busy with their shoddy fletching work.  

 

Basten doesn’t sleep, playing the words over in his head, as the rain splashes down onto the tent blocking out any sound beyond – any reaction from Leonid.  He goes through every conversation he can remember, in some vain attempt to understand what had finally upset Leonid so.

 

* * *

 

They’re exhausted when they arrive back at Skyhold – Leonid had insisted that they ride hard to get back before the Inquisition soldiers he had been travelling with, determined not to step on their toes any more.

 

“I’ll take the horses,” Basten suggests, already reaching for the reins of both mounts.  He’s expecting a protest, some biting comment to spill from Leonid’s mouth.  Instead, he hauls his pack higher on his shoulder and nods, slow and solemn.  He looks at Basten with those eyes, large and bright.

 

Basten swallows down the urge to pull Leonid close.

 

Leonid turns on his heel, heading off in the direction of his quarters as fast as his tired legs can carry him.

 

The horses are just as exhausted and don’t fight him at all as he unbuckles their saddles and removes their reins.  Basten gives them both pats on the neck and withdraws from the stables to let the stableboy find a more permanent home for them.

 

“Bastion!”  Comes a shout from across the courtyard.  The nobles making polite conversation all turn, shooting dark stares at him or at his Qunari companion shouting his name.  The Qunari in question jogs towards him, a grin pulled across her face.

 

“Raset,” Basten nods.  She pulls him into a hug as soon as she’s within arms reach, one hand patting hard at his back.

 

“You seem to have lost the other one,” she says as she pulls back, motioning at the empty space next to Basten.

 

“We’re not attached at the hip.”

 

“Funny, because I could’ve sworn you were attached to his _arse_ ,” Raset says, giggling to herself.  She cocks her head, sunlight gleaming bright off her horn casings, then continues, “or did you finally tell him that the _committed life_ doesn’t suit mercs?”

 

Basten lets out a perfunctory laugh, more a huff of breath than an actual laugh.  

 

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Basten leans against the stable, crosses his arms over his chest.  Attempting for nonchalant and missing by a mile, his nerves still rattled by the whole exchange.

 

“You’re shitting me.  Where is he really?  Have you been back long enough to have fucked him senseless and sent him to bed, because I know –”

 

“No, Raset,” he cuts her off, that heavy tightness back in his chest, redness forming on his cheeks aided by the cold.  “He said it was time for it to be over, so you better be in the tavern tonight to help me look for a new lay.”

 

Raset’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead, mouth opening once – twice, before she speaks again, “for _fucks sake_ , Basten.  And you just let him go like the _nice guy_ that you are.”

 

It’s not a question, she knows.  Raset signed up a month before him, they’d been inseparable for the first few months – the only other person who can predict him so well is Kubrasan, but all of Kata-Meraad knows that nothing happens without Kubrasan knowing about it.

 

“The rest of Kata-Meraad will be back tonight, speak to Kubrasan before you come find me,” Raset sighs, fingers tapping against one metal-cased horn.  She continues, “maybe she’ll be to talk some sense into you.  If she can’t, well then, you’re more than welcome to join me in the tavern.  I can guarantee you that you won’t find someone like that spitfire though.  Marchers tend to leave their mark.”

 

You won’t find someone like that spitfire, the words rattle around his head.  Heart beating faster against his chest, he knows there’s no one like Leonid.  Right down to his bones, he knows that truth.

 

* * *

 

“Raset said something about ‘ _fuckin’ hard head_ ’ and ‘ _can’t even stay with the pretty boy_ ’.  She seemed pretty upset,” Kubrasan sits in the armchair – how she’s managed to steal one for her quarters, Basten doesn’t know, but she settles in it regardless and rests her less-broken horn on the back of it.  

 

“Well she should mind her own business,” Basten mutters, pacing across her quarters.  Blue eyes stay fixed on the darkening courtyard, and his heart jumps into his throat whenever he sees dark hair that could be so familiar –  a potential to be the one that he wants, but none of them are.

 

“Please.  You two have been thick as thieves since I took you on.”  She crosses her arms, cold stare still locked on him.

 

“Doesn’t mean she shouldn’t mind her own business,” he tries again with a little more conviction.  Basten settles at the window, shoulder resting heavily against the stone.

 

Kubrasan sighs, rubbing two fingers between her creasing brows, “she may be putting her horns in where they’re not needed but she does that all the time, _especially_ with you.  What is this really about Basten?”

 

“You say that like you _don’t_ know,” he’s looking out of the window again, easier to do that than look at Kubrasan whose gaze still burns into the back of his skull.

 

“The spitfire.”

 

“The spitfire,” Basten repeats, the words heavy in his mouth and tongue almost twisting around itself, “he’s convinced himself that he must stick to these rules for – whatever reason.  Wants us to be friends like nothing happened… Like there’s nothing there.”

 

His eyes lock onto that dark hair and tanned skin, he’s changed out of his soaked armour and into soft leathers and furs.  Leonid ducks his way into the Herald’s Rest and he’s gone from view as quickly as Basten had spotted him.

 

“You’ve done so before.  There was Aren, Katok, Nihera _and_ her brother, J–”

 

“I remember, Kubrasan,” usually he’d smile, enjoy the memories as they were.  This– this is something else, like poison in a wound.  Lethal and heading straight for his heart.  He wonders briefly if contracting the blight would have been preferable, he could’ve joined the Grey Wardens and be done with this.

 

Perhaps that’s the problem, he doesn’t want to be done with this.

 

“The boy needs space.  There’s a lot more going on his head than he’d care to admit, even to you.  And believe it or not, he holds you higher than the rest.  He wouldn’t run into the middle of a battlefield and risk getting a scar on that pretty face for just anyone,” Kubrasan says.  She rests on ankle on the other knee and smiles at him knowingly.

 

“And I know you wouldn’t be so upset over just anyone either.”  She’s right, of course.  The constriction in Basten’s chest gets worse and the nearer he gets to the tavern, the more nauseated he feels.

 


	2. ii - Quince

  _Quince - Temptation_  

*

 

They're drinking again – of course they are.  The typical procedure for returning from missions is: remove armour, wash, change clothes and get to the Herald's Rest.  It's dark, almost midnight, the crescent moon glowing high in the sky.

 

Skyholds grounds are quiet this late, the clashing of swords and shouting soldiers gone.  The tavern's still loud, though.  Raucous laughter bursts free like a butterfly from a cocoon.  There's clashing of glasses and cheering and thumping on the wooden tables.

 

The noise guides him to his destination and another round of cheering breaks out as Basten pulls open the tavern door, they're not cheers for him but he walks in with his chest out and head held high anyway - well, as high as he can manage with these human-high ceilings.  If he stretches up too much someone will have to untangle him from the beams - he'd rather, if that is what's to happen, that he be drunk when it does.

 

The dwarven bartender nods at him, hands busy wiping down glasses.  Basten has to crane his neck to give him a smile back, he would be happier for a taller bartender that's for sure – not that he’d ever mention this to the surly Cabot who’d be more likely to simply cut him off from the tavern entirely than take it as a joke.  He grins down anyway and orders an ale.

 

"You've been hiding well," a hand pressed to the small of his back makes Basten turn, looking down at the dark haired man the voice belonged to.

 

"Not hiding, it's just some of us have things to do other than talking to nobles," Leonid arches an eyebrow, hand that was at Basten's back now pushing dark hair away from his forehead.  Hair that is considerably drier and better groomed than the last time they saw each other. Basten misses that particular Leonid touch as soon as it’s gone – tentative but sure, never staying long enough to truly connect.

 

"Yes, well, they have to give the prettier of us easier jobs. The inquisition can't have all of its men with busted noses like you."

 

"You wound me sir! Though the knife would dig deeper had a child from Highever not told me the same thing," Leonid elbows him hard in the ribs. Basten offers him a friendlier gesture, a firm hand on his shoulder that he chases with a smile.  The sting in his side is minimal, even if those small human elbows are pointy.

 

They both pick up their drinks and Leonid takes them to a table surrounded by Inquisition soldiers, chugging drinks and throwing money down onto the table. Most of the noise from the tavern is originating at this table.  Basten spots Raset at the back of the room, who smiles at him and raises her glass – though her attention quickly returns to Sera who is making obsene gestures and swearing loudly at her side.

 

"How about a game of Wicked Grace?" Leonid suggests, standing at the head of the table. With precise, deliberate movements he places his drink down on the wood - hands splaying as they rest at the two corners.  Oh, how Basten wishes he could see the man in that position. Somewhere else that is decidedly not the tavern or anywhere else with company.

 

Leonid’s eyes trace their way down the table – one side, and then up the other. Everyone is watching him, the mask of nonchalance laid over his features and a smile begins to spread as people begin to nod and cheer a resounding ‘ _yeah!_ ’.

 

"Fine, fine. As long as we aren't betting with clothes this time," Basten says.  Leonid fixes his gaze on Basten, head tilting ever so slightly.  Those lips parted so invitingly, like calling a ship to port, Basten is drawn in.

 

"You didn't do all that bad last time, _Bastion_.  Are you afraid you're going to lose?"  He says the moniker like someone might call a child - like his parents might refer to him as _Lenya_.

 

"No, just afraid you people might like what you see and get the wrong idea." Basten offers him a cocked eyebrow, a pointed look that drifts up and down his lean shape with a quiet confidence.  Leonid's gaze doesn't waver.  They’ve fallen back to these old habits, Basten can see, and the nauseous weight that had been pulling on him is lifted some.

 

Leonid slams his drink down on the table again, taking the seat next to Basten. The human stretches his arms high, lazily bringing one down to rest along the back of Basten's chair - close enough to touch, far enough away to be called a 'respectable' distance.

 

So they play cards, they drink and, now and again, Basten laughs so hard that he leans back in his chair, greeted by the warmth of Leonid's arm across his shoulder blades.  Their eyes lock for a second, Leonid pulling that ship closer to home– a sharp laugh from Sera, who has wandered over with an intoxicated Raset in tow, draws them back to the present.

 

"Oi, you two! Play your hand or get a room!"  Leonid makes his play immediately, blustering and pulling the remainder of his cards in front of his face to hide the blush.  Taking a moment to consider, Basten takes an inquisitive look around the table before he folds and lays his cards out in front of him.

 

He chugs the rest of his ale – _was it his fourth of his fifth?_ – and leans back to observe the game.  The heat from Leonid's arm is gone, a small disappointment that makes his chest constrict.

 

* * *

 

"You do know I'm capable of making it back to my quarters unescorted," Leonid intones, one hand reaching out to grab hold of Basten's bicep. Leonid steadies himself, other hand pressed against the wall for support.

 

"I am aware. But, as you may remember, my room is this way too and you would've fallen over by now if it wasn't for me."

 

"The wall suits me just fine," he throws Basten a glare, small hand still firmly squeezing at his bicep. Leonid takes a look behind them, then in front and behind again - he pauses, pushing off the wall until their bodies are parallel.

 

His eyes are unfocused and he still holds onto Basten for support, but the line of his mouth is determined. Maybe they've both had too much to drink, but Basten swears he looks beautiful with the moon brushing pale fingers of light across his face.  Basten wants to replace that touch with his own.

 

Putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, Basten pushes him back until Leonid's propped against the wall.  Inviting lips smile up at him, he's wobbly on his feet but behind those almost-black eyes he's still in control – calculating Basten's next move.  Basten runs a thumb across one tanned cheek, other hand still at Leonid's shoulder rubs small circles against his tunic.

 

"The wall _does_ suit you fine," he murmurs, lips chasing across his cheekbone and following the movement of his thumb as that hand goes to rest at the man's neck.  Leonid's mouth twitches up into a smile.

 

Their lips meet and the ship is finally at port.  It's hard and fast, Leonid grabbing up for a horn to hold onto and he pulls Basten closer.  He presses his free hand to the wall for support and kisses back, opening his mouth when Leonid's tongue experimentally brushes against his lower lip.  A moan escapes between their open mouths- he's not sure whose it was, but he enjoys the moments of their mouths locked together and the certain weight on his horn.

 

They part, breathing heavily, Leonid's got this smug grin spread across his face.  Basten's lips are on his jaw and down his throat in seconds, his hand finding purchase on bare skin under Leonid's loose tunic – palm brushing against Leonid’s abdomen.

 

"May I remind you," Leonid sighs, very clearly holding back a moan, "that you've already made me break my rule of never the same man twice."

 

"I remember – I can leave, if you'd prefer." He pulls away, prying Leonid's still-clutching hand from his horn.  He's not happy, chest pulling tight again but it's not his decision.   _Give him time_ Kubrasan had said.

 

Leonid nods, brows pulled into a frown and he pushes himself upright again ready to take off into the night.

 

"Goodnight, Basten."

 

_Marchers leave their mark_ Raset had said, and oh she was right.  She was so very right.


End file.
